


Call and Answer

by Whreflections



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Infidelity, M/M, References to Demon Blood Addiction, Samulet, Samulet Fix-It, just for full information, mild breathplay, not shown, references to bloodplay, the infidelity is only referenced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 14:30:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1691672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whreflections/pseuds/Whreflections
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's been gone from the bunker for a week, and Sam summons him to talk about a rumor he heard that he just doesn't want to believe.  Dean shows, and while the answers aren't exactly what Sam wants to hear, he comes bearing gifts.  Well, gift.  But it's a good one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call and Answer

**Author's Note:**

> So I will finish Mistaken Identity soon, I will, but the finale just...overwhelmed me with the need to write certain things, lol Demon!Dean isn't something I'd ever given much thought to, but now I can't seem to get it out of my head, XD 
> 
> Basically, this was more writing therapy for me after 9.23. Before I get Mistaken Identity finished there may well be another bit of therapy posted, but it'll be happy and non-demonic, lmao

_If you call_

_I will answer_

_And if you fall_

_I’ll pick you up_

_And if you court this disaster_

_I’ll point you home_

_-Call and Answer, Barenaked Ladies_

********

 

“You know, most people pick up the phone.”

Sam isn’t at all sure he’ll ever get used to Dean’s sudden appearances, the utter silence and lack of warning before he’s there to lean against the wall at the foot of Sam’s bed.  His arms are crossed over his chest and he’s smirking, a depiction of absolute sin in a sleek black leather jacket that matches his eyes.  The combination alone tells Sam almost everything he needed to know.

When he comes home of his own accord Dean dresses like himself, in jackets he’s worn for years and button downs from Goodwill and battered jeans, and he looks at Sam with familiar green eyes so bright they make Sam ache, that still light up with adoration when they settle on his little brother.  He is _Dean_ for Sam, as authentic as he can be, even in the midst of differences he can’t hide or deny.  When he’s working, when he’s the one and only Knight of Hell, he dresses accordingly, eyes to boots.  Sam reminds himself that those are costume changes, nothing more.  His brother is his brother, always, forever, an immutable law of matter.  The state changes; the element remains the same. 

Dean pushes off from the wall, his steps to the side of Sam’s bed quick and predatory.  Belatedly, Sam realizes that his palm is still bleeding from the summoning, and though he moves to press it against his thigh Dean grabs it first.  He stretches Sam’s arm toward him, nuzzles catlike against the heel of his palm, breathing him in. 

“This has to stop.”  His tone is enough to send a shiver down Sam’s spine, but he gentles it with his tongue, laps at the blood pooling in Sam’s palm and hums his pleasure against Sam’s skin.  “Mmm.  Better than whiskey.  But we’ve talked about this.  It’s one thing if we do it together, but I won’t have you doin’ this just to get me here.” 

“Dean, you’re…Red Leader downstairs.  Your sigil takes some serious crap.  Not my fauilt.”  

“Truth is though, we know when someone’s dialing us up.  I can feel that sigil bein’ drawn, wherever it happens.  I just don’t have to go unless someone pays up, but for _you,_ Sammy…”  Sam’s heart skips, still, every time.  He’s still Sammy, and this is still Dean, even if the eyes that flicker up to catch Sam’s response are too dark to ever read.  “Put something else in that sigil for me.  Sign it.  I’ll come to you; you don’t have to force it.”

He’s willing to try, if it works, ready to say so but before he can Dean is kissing him, sliding a tongue slick with Sam’s own blood past his lips.  It shouldn’t be so hot, wouldn’t be if it wasn’t quite so clear how Dean loves the taste, how his tongue curls languid against Sam’s, eager to share.  When Dean does pull away, the swipe of his tongue across his lower lip is slow and obscene and fuck, Sam’s already hard.  Touching up the sigil and gathering the components for the summoning, Sam had to have told himself a dozen times that the two of them _had_ to talk; he wasn’t summoning Dean here to fuck.  (But they would, he knew, regardless of what the answers to his questions might be.  No matter what he’d thought in the dark last night alone, once Dean was with him the matter of them fucking became a forgone conclusion.) 

Sam swallows, lays his palm a moment against Dean’s cheek because the motion is comforting in its familiarity, and because Dean leans into his touches now every time, more tactile than he ever was as a human.  (If there is one thing he’ll miss about Dean’s demonic months when they’re past all this, it’ll be that; he’s sure of it.) 

“Dean, can I ask you something?” 

Dean smirks, “Like I said.  Most people call.  You could’ve called.”

“I’ve been calling you a week, Dean.  You haven’t answered.”  Maybe it sounds a little more irritated than he meant, or maybe it’s something else, but Dean spins out of his grasp at that.  The loss leaves Sam irrationally cold.  “I’m just saying, there’s no point in telling me I can reach you anytime if it isn’t true.  I know you’re avoiding me, Dean.  And…I think I know why.” 

Dean had fallen into a steady pace at the foot of Sam’s bed as Sam talked, shoulders just a little hunched, like a caged wildcat.  There’s no devil’s trap in here, nothing to tether him now that he’s answered the summons.  If he wants to go, Sam can’t hold him. 

His head twists toward Sam, the turn unnaturally quick enough that Sam can feel his stomach flutter.  So much he just isn’t used to, not yet.  Part of him is a little glad for that.  “You gonna talk about this suspicion of yours, Sam, or am I supposed to play twenty questions?”

‘It’s not exactly a suspicion.  More something I heard a few days ago.”

“Oh?  From?” 

For a moment, Sam’s tempted to say he doesn’t remember.  It’s tempting, incredibly so because the old Dean, under those circumstances he would have been able to let it go.  This Dean, he’d interrogate every single member of the guard he’s posted around Lebanon before he found the culprit.  In the end, there’s less damage to be done by just coming clean.  “Rachel.”  He hates that he mumbles almost as much as he hates to say it at all.  She’s a demon, nothing to him, absolutely dangerous and likely a killer, but he’s just signed her up for a painful death and for that, he _should_ at least feel something, even if it’s only confused. 

“Yeah?  Well, demons—“

“If you say ‘demons lie’ to me, I swear—“

“To God?”  Dean’s laugh is thick and rich and deep, terrifying and beautiful.  He stops in his tracks, spreads his hands out in a gesture of pacification.  “I mean, we do, but I haven’t lied to you.  Recently.  That I remember.  Anyway if I did, it wasn’t important; can you just cut to it?  What’d the bitch tell you I did anyway, vaporize a kid or something?”

The fact that he thought to bring it up should make Sam wonder, it really should.  Sam rakes his hair back, gives himself five seconds to regret how stupid he’s about to sound before he spits it out.  “I heard her talking to one of the others.  About some new incentive program for some of the demons converting to hell’s new world order.”  He hopes to God that’s all he has to say, feels his mouth twist into something that’s almost a smile as he realizes the irony.  Sharing his bed with a demon who also technically still shares his blood, Dean’s right that he should probably stop hoping to _God_ for anything. 

“Lemme guess, something about knight’s blood?  Something like this?”  Dean shrugs off his jacket in one fluid motion, tosses it to lie across the end of Sam’s bed.  There’s a row of healing cuts all along Dean’s right forearm, lined up neat and even beneath the mark of Cain.  They’re bruised around the edges like they’ve been sucked hard, and Sam’s stomach twists with the realization.  It’s a sharp pain, lust and jealousy and hurt.  (One of those has to be greater; he knows it, knows just as thoroughly that he cannot distinguish it for himself, not right now.)  Dean’s still smiling but it’s different, more coaxing than arrogant.  “Oh come on, Sam, don’t look at me like that, man.  This is a resource; I couldn’t let that opportunity go.  I’m packing 190 proof demon blood, here.  They’ll claw each other to pieces for a taste, so if that’s a benefit that goes only to the most loyal…you’ve gotta see how useful that is.” 

Logically, maybe.  Sam sinks to the edge of the bed, kicks one boot up against the frame and leans on his knee.  It’d be easier to study the floor than look at his brother, but he makes himself look up.  “It’s not just the blood though, is it?  You’re fucking them.”  It isn’t a question, because he doesn’t have to ask.  He knows; he’d know even if he hadn’t heard enough from Rachel to realize it.  He’s drunk demon blood before; he knows what it does, how heady the rush of power is, how it always went as much to his cock as his head.  This is transaction he understands.  Now that Dean’s involved, he wishes he didn’t. 

“And if I am what makes you think it means a damn thing?  It’s sex not a friggin commitment ceremony!  It’s not just meaningless it’s _less_ than meaningless; it’s a scrap of meat and blood for an obedient dog.  That’s it.”  It shouldn’t be so hard to hear, not when it’s good news.  He never exactly expected any less, though, not really.  It isn’t so much what it means to Dean _now_ that cuts him, it’s how Dean would have looked at the prospect _before_.  For all the sleeping around he’d done in Sam’s years at Stanford, all that had stopped once they were together again.  He hadn’t asked for Dean’s promise on that but he’d given it, his lips pressed to Sam’s neck just below his ear.  _It’s always gonna be just you for me now, you know.  I can’t go back, Sammy, not this time._

It’s stupid, irrational, but somehow he’d thought even now that would hold; perhaps because so much else has.  He’s not sure how to phrase it exactly, not sure that he should even try, but the words spill out anyway.  “I get the logic; it’s not exactly a new tactic.  Commanders have been using sex to inspire loyalty for thousands of years.  And believe me, I know things are different now, I just thought…”  _I thought it still meant something to you that it was just me and you.  I thought we hadn’t lost that._   “I _know_ it’s different, and I know what you’re doing, but I also know you told me nothing was changing between us.  If it has, you could at least tell me to my face so I don’t hear it through the demon grapevine.”  

“Sam—“

“Just one more thing; hear me out.”  Sam swallows, grateful for Dean’s silence even though he’s hesitating.  “ _You_ wouldn’t do this.  Not without the blade.”  Out loud, he still has trouble calling Dean by his proper current species.  “So yeah, that worries me.  And I can’t say I’d be thrilled with all this even if it didn’t.” 

Dean’s right up on him startlingly quick, appearing just in front of him so close he’s standing between Sam’s legs.  Sam jumps, all instinct, but he’s a little more accustomed than he was at first.  He doesn’t go for his knife anymore.  Usually now, he just reaches for Dean.  Dean’s arms are winding around his shoulders, draping over him to pull them almost chest to chest; it would be so easy to wrap his arms around Dean’s back, to pull him closer still. He’s going to give in, he knows it, but he won’t give in that easy. 

“Have I ever mentioned how pretty you are when you’re jealous?  It’s a good look on you, kid.”  The black in Dean’s eyes recedes, leaves behind vibrant green.  It’s a look full of affection and apology, and at the moment, it makes Sam feel sick. 

“Don’t do that.”  Reflexively, he shoves at Dean’s chest though it does little good.  He doesn’t let go, but he does back off, just a touch. 

“I thought you liked it.” 

“You know damn well what I mean; you wanna do it then do it but don’t pull that shit just to screw with me.”  If he can hear the hurt in his own voice now, it’s a sure thing Dean can hear it.  Sam isn’t looking, not exactly, but out of the corner of his eye he can see his brothers eyes fill with black.  It’s not what he wants, really, but given the circumstances it’s a relief all the same. 

Dean’s thumb drags along the back of his neck, tracing his spine.  “It’s just a job, Sammy, alright?  Look I know it sucks, I’m not crazy about it either; I mean that.  You think I want their grimy hands all over me?  Hell no.  But we agreed to work this like a job, and that’s what I’m doin’.  I’m playin’ my part; sometimes that’s gonna involve decisions worse than this.  I’m not sayin’ it’s not easier for me now; hell, I’m not sayin’ there aren’t parts of it I enjoy.  There are; you know that already.  And maybe I was avoiding comin’ home for a few days, but I wasn’t exactly hiding it from you.  You’d have seen the evidence yourself when I came back, and I’d have told you the truth.  You have to believe me, Sam, I wouldn’t set out to hurt you.  Not for anything.  And you can’t think for one second there’s a single one of those cockroaches means anything to me beyond how I can put  ‘em to use.  All that matters is me and you.  That doesn’t change.  It never has, and it never will.” 

He sounds so sincere, so full of devotion.  Sam’s so damn tired of looking for lies. 

Dean insinuates himself closer between Sam’s legs and Sam lets him, lets his brothers arms encompass him.  His lips are warm as he nuzzles into Sam’s throat and feathers kisses along the underside of his jaw; before he can think to catch it, a low hum of pleasure rises from Sam’s throat.  (It’s no surprise; everything in him is hardwired to respond to his brother, body and soul.  He’d have known it anyway, knows even better because he’s heard Dean talk of those months without his soul, of a body that wasn’t quite Sam but craved Dean anyway.) 

“Sammy, I’ve missed you; I don’t wanna fight.  Besides, think I have something that’ll make you feel better.  I was coming home soon anyway.  Got you a present.”  He pauses at Sam’s ear, tugs sharply on the lobe with his teeth.  At some point, Sam’s hands have settled into rubbing Dean’s back, though he couldn’t place the moment it happened.  His nails dig in just a little on either side of Dean’s spine, light pressure that his brother arches into.  “Why don’t I show you now?  Might make you stop worryin’ about this.”

Technically, there are options, here.  He could say no, could spend a few days brooding over the all too vivid images he has in his mind of strangers, of _demons_ drinking down his brother’s blood, taking his cock, kissing his mouth.  He could do that, but what good would it do?  In the end, they would come back together, and Dean would be farther from him, and it would all be to no effect.  If he isn’t wrong that this isn’t a decision Dean would have made on his own, before(and he’s not, he can’t be, he’s certain of that), then it does no good to blame him now, regardless.  If they talk about this again, it’ll be months from now, and Dean will blame himself enough for both of them. 

Of all the facets of this situation that hurt, all the cuts he’s carried on with, this one is comparatively minor.  Sam can swallow it down.  He has to, for reasons that aren’t too dissimilar from the ones that drove him to summon Dean here in the first place- this is his brother, _his_.  He won’t give Dean up, not to anyone, not for anything. 

Sam’s grip on Dean’s back tightens, his hands sweeping low to slide beneath his brother’s shirt.  He hauls Dean in, spreads his own legs a little wider so Dean’s hips can press flush against his.  Beneath his jeans, he can already feel the rising swell of Dean’s cock, a pressure he can’t help but let his hips roll into.  He nuzzles into his brother’s neck, rubbing his stubbled cheek against the softest stretches of skin the way he knows Dean likes. 

“What’d you bring me?”  He closes his eyes, half smiles against the collar of Dean’s shirt because for a moment, this could almost be any one of a thousand points along their timeline.  When they were kids Dean was forever pulling something for Sam out of his backpack, the pockets of his jacket, the trunk of the Impala.  Even grown it was an inclination that never stopped, the look on his face  as he held out a swiped library book the same as it had been when he was twelve and dangling a pocketed candy bar over Sam’s palms.  _Here, Sammy.  I brought you something._

It’s almost the same, almost, but when he breathes Dean in he smells like a disconcerting mix of sulfur and blood and leather.  That alone could hurt if he let it, if he dwells too much on the memory of how his brother smelled like motel soap and gasoline and yes, sometimes leather but always with an undercurrent of Dean smell, unclassified, so familiar he never even noticed it unless he’d been away from it.  The smell of home. 

Dean’s head turns to catch his mouth in a kiss, and Sam does his best to stop thinking.  Dean kisses thoroughly; that hasn’t changed.  He’s got one hand buried in Sam’s hair, tugging with controlled force here and there, just enough to move Sam where he wants him, change the angle to the perfect one for licking deeper into his mouth.  He’s forceful and sure, every motion deliberate down to the way he snags Sam’s lower lip between his teeth, holds on just tight enough that it almost stings when Dean pulls away. 

“I was gonna surprise you.  I had a plan and everything.”  There’s a teasing lilt to his breathless voice, bright and cheerful and so far from demonic.  He pauses to steal another kiss before he pulls back, disentangles his right arm to reach into his back pocket.  Whatever he’s got, it’s small enough to gather into his fist.  He holds it out, palm down.  “Here.  Look what I found.”

Sam knows before he sees it, knows the minute the weight hits his palm with a certainty so deep that he has to believe that it was exactly this he was hoping for the second Dean pulled his hand out of his pocket.  He knows the heft of it, the shape.  He’d know it anywhere.  In fact, he’d be willing to bet that despite having worn it for years, it’s him more than Dean that’s most familiar with the way the amulet _feels_.  Dean wore it against his chest but it’s Sam who’s more often held it, squeezed tight in his fist as he tugged Dean’s mouth to his, idly toyed with between his fingers as he lay against Dean’s chest a thousand nights in a thousand motels. 

His throat goes dry, a counterpoint to eyes that suddenly can’t see quite clear.  He blinks until he can, quick and impatient.  He hasn’t seen the thing in years; he has to take it in, look it over and see that nothing has changed.  (It hasn’t, not a bit.)  Sam flexes his fingers over it, feels the blunt pressure of the horns, the welcome press of metal slightly warmed from being carried against his brother’s body, even with a layer of fabric between. 

“How’d you find it?”  Sam’s voice is thick with the tears he didn’t allow to actually fall but he doesn’t care, not at all, because when he looks up the eyes watching him are a warm, pleased green. 

“Locator spell, a little heavier one than I thought it’d take but it was pretty easy to find after that.”

“I didn’t know you wanted it back.  If I had…”  He might not have found it, but he’d have done something.  At the very least, the knowledge itself would have been damn good to have. 

“Oh, I wanted it.  I realized that about ten miles down the road after we drove off from that place.  I should’ve gone back right then.”  Dean takes the hem of his own shirt in his hands, yanks it up and over his head in motion that sends it sailing backwards without a glance.  Sam’s still holding the amulet in the space between them, stroking the pad of his thumb across its features, caught up in sense memory until Dean taps the top of his hand.  “Hey.  How about you put that back where it belongs?”

That’s exactly what he’d like to do. 

He stands to do it, gives himself the advantage of height to slip it over Dean’s head and around his neck.  It settles against his bare chest as if it’d never left and the image is beautiful, arousing and breathtaking, but it’s the way Dean sighs as it touches him that does Sam in.  He takes Dean’s face in his hands, kisses him hungry and rough until Dean is grasping at his shirt, the loops of his jeans. 

Sam doesn’t feel like stopping, not for that kind of triviality.  “Just get rid of them.” 

The sound Dean makes against his lips is almost certainly a laugh but it’s short, followed by a snap of fingers that probably isn’t necessary for any reason other than because it’s Dean and he takes pleasure sometimes in pointless detail.  There’s a dozen soft tearing sounds and the remnants of jeans and Sam’s shirt flutter to pool around their feet.  Later, he might remember he liked those jeans and regret his impatience, but it’s not likely.  It’s worth it to have Dean skin to skin with him all at once, the solid press of their chests and the already hard line of his brother’s cock. 

Dean breaks their kiss, licks lips already swollen as he looks up at Sam from beneath dark eyelashes.  “What do you want, Sam?  Anything; tell me.” 

Sam’s cock twitches, trapped between their hips.  It’s heady, he can’t deny it; all the power Dean has now and still, sometimes he gives himself right over into Sam’s hands.  He isn’t always so pliant.  He comes home some nights with his hands still red, crawls into Sam’s bed in the dark and fucks him rough and quick but even then he’s still laying himself bare in a different way, trusting that Sam can feel his hands sticky with blood, look into eyes gone shiny black as he comes and still want Dean to stay.  (And he always stays, every time, even though he can’t sleep.  They maneuver around each other as comfortably as they always have, and they talk and kiss and bask in the warmth and the sounds of each other’s breath until Sam falls asleep.  Sometimes, Dean is still there when he wakes up.  Sometimes there’s only sulfur in his sheets.)

As eager to please as Dean is right now, he’d go to his knees if Sam asked him, suck his cock so far back into his throat that Sam’s knees would give out.  It’s tempting, though not half so much as the dark bruises along Dean’s arm.  He doesn’t mean to look, tries not to because he knows Dean will offer, but he glances. 

Dean practically purrs, slides his hands up Sam’s chest and bares his neck in blatant offering.  “You want some, Sammy?  You take as much as you want, go on and—“

“No.”  It’s not the first time he’s had to say it, not the first time Dean’s offered.  (There’s something in Sam’s chest all too warm and pleased at the thought that Dean offered it to _him_ first, long before the others; right alongside it he carries the firm cold of reality of the way Dean will look at him once this is all over if he takes what’s offered now.  He’s had enough of that level of bitter disappointment on his brother’s face to last him a lifetime.) 

“I wish you would; I’m not gonna be pissed, I swear.  It feels good, better than I expected anyway but if it was _you_ —“

“I said no, Dean.”  And he did, and he means it, but that doesn’t stop him from biting down on his brother’s neck just over his pulse, not enough to break the skin but just enough to bruise.  He sucks until Dean whines and thrusts against his hip, stops then only because the spike of lust that stabs in his gut is terrifyingly sharp.  He doesn’t want to know what Dean would do if he actually broke the skin, how he would writhe and cry out, how maybe if he did it just right, Sam might could get him off just like that, just his mouth and the blood and the press of their bodies against each other. 

He can’t think about that; not now, not ever. 

He breathes against Dean’s neck until he’s sure he has control, enough of it at least that when he opens the drawer of his end table, he won’t go for the knife.  “You asked what I want; I want to fuck you.  Get on the bed.”  His voice is a growl, at the pitch he knows from long practice never fails to make Dean spread his legs.  He knows it, can feel it fresh in the vibration of the moan that rumbles in Dean’s chest. 

He’s quick to comply, vanishes and reappears spread on Sam’s bed hips working lazily against nothing as his back arches in a blatant show.  If he wasn’t so damn gorgeous, Sam might be more inclined to point out the ridiculousness of teleportation for a distance of less than three feet.  He might, but Dean’s got his head thrown back, little sounds leaving his throat like he’s so goddamn desperate he can hardly stand a moment’s separation from Sam’s skin.  He’s been like this ever since he woke up, so responsive, so eager, and Sam’s not sure if it’s demonic intensification of lust or if it’s an act for Sam’s benefit, strategic manipulation.  He knows which he hopes, at least, and maybe that’s enough. 

Sam yanks open the drawer, finds the bottle of lube without any fumbling.  He tosses it to the bed to bounce against Dean’s hip, climbs on to slot himself between Dean’s legs, his weight coming to rest half on his arms and half on Dean’s chest as he lowers himself down.  Dean’s head is still tipped back, eyes cracked open just enough to focus on the sigil carved into the headboard.  He just found the book for it only two days ago, but he knows Dean will recognize it, full as he is of demonic knowledge these days. 

“Like the artwork.”

“Well, you spend enough time here.  Seemed a good precaution.”  Because in his bed Dean is vulnerable, and he’ll have no one use that against him.  With the power of the sigil the space around the bed is unholy ground, strong enough to repel holy water, strong enough according to legend to stop any who mean harm to those it protects.  When Dean is cured, he can sand it off. 

Sam kisses the smile off Dean’s lips, messy and disorganized.  Beneath him Dean’s hips are rocking up at a constant rhythm, his cock leaking as it thrusts against Sam’s, drags a trail of dampness across Sam’s skin. It’s good, familiar and right and Sam settles his weight down fully, matches the roll of his hips to Dean’s and loses himself in his brother’s mouth.  His hands are constantly roving, kneading at Sam’s ass and pulling at his hair and always, always trying to get him closer, just a little closer.  They kiss until Sam is almost dizzy with it, until the soft high sounds Dean makes here and there into his mouth are nearly constant. 

 He could come like this if Sam kept it up, again when Sam fucks him; he’s much less picky about that sort of thing now.  He doesn’t have to worry about lasting, not when his body carries no proper biological restraints.  It’s fine, amazing even at times but this, right now, it’s what _Sam_ wants and at the moment, Sam’s full up on reminders of how they’ve changed. 

He slides a hand between them, squeezes at the base of Deans cock and kisses the bruise on his neck when he groans.  “Easy.  Wait for me.” 

“Hurry your ass up.” 

Just because, he should probably slow down.  Probably, but he doesn’t want to.  He’s eager himself, his cock throbbing a little harder at just the thought of Dean’s body taking him in.  He slides a hand up Dean’s thigh, pauses long enough to repeat the motion, appreciate the play of muscle beneath soft skin and fine hair as Dean hitches his leg higher.  A slight adjustment of his own hips and his cock brushes against Dean’s ass, tip damp and teasing against muscle that’s still too tense, too dry.    

Dean squirms clutches at Sam’s back, begins to murmur under his breath in Latin until Sam’s hand spreads against his throat, firm enough to tip his chin up and his mouth closed. 

“I don’t think that’s how that spell’s meant to be used, Dean.”  Not that he minds oil of abramelin, hell, not that he’d mind Dean being ready for him, not always.  Just not now. 

“Killjoy.”

“Yeah, that’s me.  You’re havin’ no fun at all.”  He flexes his hand against Dean’s throat, curls his fingers just enough to catch the leather of the amulet’s cord as he presses down.  Not too hard, just enough that Dean’s breath comes a little shallow, enough to make him moan and jerk upward.  _This_ , this isn’t new, this is old, it’s Dean babbling drunk at twenty how his little brother’s hands are just too goddamn big to be fair, it’s the look Dean gets when those hands fit around his wrists or long fingers slip into his mouth.  This, Sam knows.  (There’s a voice in the back of his mind that tells him he could take it farther now; it’s not as if Dean strictly _needs_ to breathe.  He silences it, shelves it somewhere out of thought because later, he might want to remember, he might be alright with wondering.) 

Sam eases up, pulls back for a moment almost all the way out of Dean’s arms so he can palm the bottle of lube before he settles back in.  The top flips open, a little too much spilling over his fingers when he tips it, not that he cares.  He’s not exactly good at being careful, not usually, certainly not with Dean rutting against him, nails dragging thin lines he can feel all the way up his back.  He starts with two fingers, a kindness done for the sake of his brother’s neediness.  It’s a little bit of a stretch but not too much, not enough to really hurt, not enough to keep Dean from rocking back into his hand.  Sam crooks his fingers and strokes, nuzzles into Dean’s shoulder and bites down when he feels the spurt of liquid from Dean’s cock that trickles out in response. 

“Sammy, Sammy, fuck, just—“

He’s close, then, enough that _Sammy_ sounds half like a prayer.  Sam’s cock jerks.  “Ok, ok Dean; wait for me, just wait.”  He doesn’t have to last long, just long enough.  Sam licks his lips, tastes the hint of Dean on them before he bends his head for a kiss that tastes even better.  He takes the amulet in his palm, wraps his fingers around the cord to hold on as he rolls them over.  Dean’s thighs are spread around his waist, cock rubbing against Sam’s stomach; for a second, they both catch their breath.  Sam whispers into the space between, a little scratchy, a little uneven. “Like this.”  Like this, because Dean riding him has never been less than a fucking beautiful sight, because Dean is close and Sam wants him to come first once Sam’s inside him, wants to watch him chase his pleasure and arch and shiver and keen.  Like this, because Dean will come all over his chest, and his grip on Dean’s thighs just might bruise, and there will be no doubt that they belong to each other, thoroughly, an absolute truth. 

Dean sinks onto his cock, and Sam stops thinking.  There is only the heat of his brothers body, the sound of his name off Dean’s lips mingled with sharp breaths, the strength in hands that can’t seem to get enough of Sam’s chest.  Sam’s hands are preoccupied with Dean’s thighs, mesmerized by their strength, by their solidity as Sam’s grip tightens.  (There will be marks; he’s sure of it, sure enough that he can feel something in his chest already preening.) 

Right on the edge Dean’s rhythm falters, and Sam brings his knees up so Dean can lean into him, forget balance and focus on wrapping a hand around his cock.  He jerks off quick and fast, whimpers when Sam thrusts up hard just as he starts to come.  He shoots hot across Sam’s chest, head back and eyes closed and Sam hates that he notices, hates that this is a moment Dean still sometimes tries to hide. 

Sam swipes a hand across his chest, intends first to draw his fingers back to his mouth or slide them into Dean’s, but his hand wraps around the amulet instead.  Dean comes down to him willingly, almost bonelessly, kisses his lips and his cheeks and the line of his jaw in-between murmured encouragement so soft Sam hardly hears him.

“That’s right, baby; I’m all yours.”

Sam grinds his hips up, pushes in so deep his balls are flush against Dean’s skin when they tighten as he comes.  Dean’s body is still fluttering around him, milking at his cock, and it’s good, it’s glorious.  Sam’s free hand slides from Dean’s thigh up across his ribs and back, a slow caress that he maintains until Dean lifts himself off Sam’s cock to shift onto the mattress beside him.  Only then does Sam let the amulet go to fall back sticky against Dean’s chest, his fingers cramping. 

He’s exhausted, hot and sleepy.  It’s been a hell of a long week; he never knows where Dean goes, not exactly, not every time, but he never gets used to not going with him, never adjusts to the worry of it.  He never adjusts to sleeping alone, ether, not after years of too small motel beds and Dean forever in his space. 

Like he is now, wrapping around Sam like a vine, his face tucked into Sam’s neck so tight the heat of his breath is nearly too hot but Sam doesn’t mind. 

“Sam?”

“Yeah, Dean?”

“We’re ok, right?”  There’s an undercurrent of genuine fear; it slips knifelike between Sam’s ribs, into his lungs.  He breathes in sharply, turns his head to press his lips to Dean’s hair.  Sulfur and leather and blood and sex.  His brother, still his brother. 

“Yeah.  Yeah, we’re ok.”

“It’s a good plan, you know, and it doesn’t mean anything so I never thought—“

“We don’t have to talk about it.”  And honestly, he’d rather they didn’t.  If this is anything like how Dean felt talking to him when he didn’t have a soul, Sam’s developing a whole new level of empathy for the experience.  The whole thing is a goddamn mess of contrasts, a fragile construct in his head that he’s piecing together of Dean/not-Dean.  He’s not sure how long he’ll be able to keep it up before the whole thing breaks apart in his hands. 

“Yeah.  Alright.”  So he says, but Dean’s not letting it go, not quite.  Sam can feel the tension in him, feel him turning words over.  “I won’t take it off, you know.  Not ever again.  But that, it’s ours; first bastard tries to lay a hand on it, I’ll take it from him.”  _And then I’ll bring it to you_.  He doesn’t have to say it; Sam knows.  He’s already showed up with more than one body. 

_Hey, you remember Portland, that demon that threw you over the bar?  Here.  I tracked him down._

That first one, he wasn’t a man so much as a bloody mess; Dean hadn’t gotten so carried away again, not that he’d let Sam see, at least. 

Because he’s not sure what else to say, Sam kisses the top of his head again, rubs Dean’s back in small, slow circles until their breaths are almost matched, until if he didn’t know better, he’d say Dean was asleep. 

“Dean, about this…about the job, with hell.  You’re still planning to go through with our deal, right?”  His heart hammers, enough that he’s half ashamed Dean can feel it. 

There’s no anger, though, not that he can feel, just a kiss against the hollow of his throat.  “My contracts are binding.  You know that.  Even if they weren’t, I made you a promise, Sammy.  Soon as we’re done with the hell remodel, you shoot me up and we get back to the road.  Whatever else happens, I still want that.  I do.”

Maybe it’s wise and maybe it’s naïve, but Sam believes him, perhaps even more at moments like this. 

“I’m supposed to try and work a deal every time I’m summoned, you know.”

“You tellin’ me I’m screwing with your stats?”

“Damn straight.”

Sam laughs, deep and real and from his chest.  “Well, we can’t have that.  What’s it cost if I ask you to stay?” 

“All night?”  Dean stretches, pulls his head out of its hollow to look up at his brother.  “I want you to take that hellhound pup I offered to bring you.”

“Dean—“

“It’s protection.”

“I don’t need—“

“You want me to stay, then shut up and kiss me.”

“You’re ridiculous.”  And he is, it’s true, but it’s also so very Dean.  That’s a good feeling, at least as good as the tingle against his lips that marks the sealing of a contract as Sam kisses him.   

 


End file.
